The Bottom of the Stairs
by the ersatz diplomat
Summary: Written for the LJ community MetamorFic Moon's event, The Beatles and the Bard Timeless Moon Ball. R/T romanticky-humour! "No, I have bigger a problem to worry about. A dilemma, even. A predicament, one might say."


**Title:** The Bottom of the Stairs  
**Author:chococoffeekiss** aka- the ersatz diplomat  
**Rating & Warnings:** Rated PG-13  
**Prompts:** "You don't know the latest dance/but when it's time to make romance/your kisses let me know you're not a tomboy." -Don't Ever Change. And: worry  
**Word Count:**1,926  
**Summary:** "No, I have bigger a problem to worry about. A dilemma, even. A predicament, one might say."  
**Author's Notes:** First fic on LJ. How exciting.

I've been meaning to move this over to for a while and have just now got around to it, so if you didn't read it at Meta, here goes.

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**The Bottom of the Stairs**

From where I sat at the bottom of the stairs, things were looking pretty bleak, not to mention fuzzy around the edges. Of course, my foot was twisted in a funny-to-anyone-that-isn't-me direction, and I did have a face full of Ancient and Noble House of Black dust, but that is hardly a rare occurrence for me. No, I have bigger a problem to worry about. A dilemma, even. A predicament, one might say.

"You've a mouth like a sailor."  
A pair of big, somber blue eyes peered down at me. Solemn, earnest eyes, like a little boy. I wonder if he knows that sometimes his eyes make him look about six years old, despite the scars and stubble on his chin. And the way he stares at me, it makes me feel even more uncertain of things I'm already uncertain about, which is dreadfully confusing and adds slight insult to the injurious fact that I'm layed out in an awkward heap in the middle of the hall. Yes, this is my problem; the tall, brown haired, blue eyed thirty-odd-year-old-little-boy that always seems to find me sprawled in an unbecoming pile of clumsy on the floor. As if it isn't unbecoming enough, being me.

"What, are my teeth are falling out from scurvy?"  
Ah yes, the winner of the 'things-to-say-to-Remus' race to from my mind to my mouth. _Scurvy._ Smooth, real smooth. He smiles anyway, which makes the angry throbbing in my ankle suddenly cease, but immediately replaces it with a heart attack. Or what feels like a heart attack, anyway. The man is magic, sure. He should use his powers for good, instead of using them to make me nervous enough to talk about scurvy and then giving me heart failure.

"No, you...You have a- an extensive vocabulary. For a lady."  
Always painfully tactful, and he has that expression again, that embarrassed contrition, which on anyone else would probably look annoying, but then he bites his lip and frowns... It kind of makes you feel like you're falling down stairs, without the whole 'twist-your-ankle, get-splinters-in-your-arse' bit. Needless to say, I won't be telling him about the splinters.

"Who said anything about me being a "lady", Remus?" I joked, hoping he'd laugh. He didn't laugh. Damn.

"Hmm."  
He cleared his throat and picked me up off the ground like I weigh absolutely nothing, in object defiance toward the law of gravity that I had just proved by doing an end-over-end down the stairs that would've won me nine-point-five from a panel of Olympic judges. Under the circumstances, I was glad he was helping me hobble to the sofa, extra-glad that he left his arm around me even after we sat down, and the tiniest bit intrigued by the fact that he smelled like books and cake and ink. I was surprised, though, when he picked my feet up and set them on his knees, turning me sideways on the sofa. He untied my left trainer without asking, pulled it off gently, gingerly, and dropped it on the floor.

"A bit sexist, don't you think?"  
I am an utter failure when it comes to making conversation, obviously. Woefully inept. Why can't I use words like that when I'm talking to him, you ask? It is my theory that the majority of my brain shuts down while in his presence, due to the fact that I was completely unaware that anyone could look so good while reading Isaac Asimov with their stockinged feet propped up on the kitchen table. Or that anyone could be so quick with a comeback to a Sirius Insult, delivering a stinging and hilarious retort featuring the terms 'damnable', 'trousers', 'pineapple', and 'goat' without even looking up from his book. Attraction to biting sarcasm is a trait that runs in the family, we crave punishment. It is as unavoidable as the troll-leg-umbrella-thingy in the hall, and just as dangerous. Attraction to unkempt men that read Muggle sci-fi in the kitchen...well, I have no idea where that comes from. Not that I mind.

"What do you mean?"

"Me, not being allowed to say 'sonofabloodybitch' when I fall down two flights of steps."

"Hmm. So you're one of those radical women's lib types?"  
I swear I saw a tiny smile twitch on the corners of his lips. He rolled up the hem of my jeans and felt my ankle in a precise way, fingers pressing just enough to make me realize that yes, it hurts like a sonofabloodybitch. But it is definitely worth it to have him touch me. I don't think he touches many people; when he does it's practiced, formal, measured. I'm assuming this has something to do with that whole lycanthropy thing. I was shocked when I found that out, mostly because I couldn't tell- it doesn't show in his manners or personality or anything save those scars. This makes him...different. Not in a bad way, mind you. In a good way. This fellow is not your average werewolf, much less your average wizard. Or your average guy.

"Er, no. Can't say that I've ever converged on the nearest university with the intent of incinerating a pile of my underthings. Other people's underthings, well...That's a whole different story altogether. How's my foot? Do I need to have it amputated, because then I _really could_ be a sailor. A pirate, even. I could wear a wooden leg, and an eye-patch."  
I know, I ramble. Some people think it's a curse, I find it dead useful for curing awkward silences. Or causing awkward silences, it all depends on my mood- or whoever I'd like to see blush. Unfortunately, it backfires more often than not and I'm usually the one doing the blushing. By a freak chance, a twisting of something in my blood, or maybe just pure magic, I can turn it off, morph it away, and people don't see me flustered. They only hear it. Hence, _scurvy_.

"I don't think we'll need to take such drastic measures this time, Nymphadora, it's just a sprain."  
A smile this time, a real grin, and it makes me think of a photo Sirius showed me earlier today, of the two of them at Hogwarts. They were standing out by the lake in the sunshine, laughing, with their arms around each other's shoulders. I can see how they were popular at school, they're both absolutely gorgeo- I mean, legitimately good-looking. Yes. Good-looking, to the point of me wanting to steal the picture and Permanently Stick it to my mirror at home.

"Ack. _Don't_ call me that."

"You don't want me to call you by your name?"  
He looks up at me from under his hair that's so nice and brown and just a tad gray, and I find myself thinking about how it turns up right at the ends, at the back of his neck and right behind his ears. A curl of it catches on his shirt collar and I suddenly realize that I am digging my fingernails into my palms with previously unrealized frustration. Previously unrealized because my attention-deficit mind had wandered down a corridor labeled 'What Might've Happened Had You Bit Him on the Earlobe Like You Wanted" without letting me know where it was going.

"My _name_ is _Tonks_."

"That's not girly enough for you. I like 'Nymphadora' better."  
He was being charming on purpose now, the prat. I could see it on his face, how he raised an eyebrow at me in a way that was probably supposed to be more mischievous than sexy, and was both.

"I'm not girly."

"You're a girl."

"Clearly, but I'm not so... But you see- that name makes me sound like I should run a tea-house, or sell dress robes, or teach Divination or...or something." It was at this point that I realized he still had hold of my ankle. He must have realized it as well, he let go.

"Surely you must like some girly things." He poked my foot with his wand, muttering a spell. "Better?"

"I do like shoes. And bubble baths. Chocolate chip cookie dough...but that's about the extent..." His fingers trailed down the bottom of my foot and I nearly fell off the sofa. "Of my girly...ish...ness...ivity...osity."

He grinned again, the bastard was enjoying this.

"Oh yes, and I like men. That's feminine, is it not?" I can be a right bitch sometimes, myself.

"Uh, I would imagine." The grin fell into a thin line of pinched-together lips. A hand went to the back of his neck, and his eyes darted away from me. Ah, revenge is a lovely thing to behold, especially in the form of a blush on the jaw of the fellow who simply won't stop calling you by the godawful name your mum invented herself _especially to torture you._

"I suppose it is a vital part of being a "lady", right?"

"I -um, I wouldn't know."

"No, probably not." I picked up my feet and put them back on the floor, giving the nice man who smells like a combination library-bakery a chance to run away. He didn't, which is either a good sign for me, or a big mistake on his part. "At least, I would hope not."

"Is that meant to be an insult?"

"Only if you wish to take it as one."

"And what if I do?"

"First, I will laugh. Then I will summon all of my well-concealed and extremely lady-like politeness in order to apologize in a manner most sincere..."

"Such brutal honesty..."

"It's something I pride myself on."

"...For a _lady_." He chuckled, a smug smile breaking into a crooked grin.

"Oh, the cruelty, Remus. Must I go around proving my femininity to everyone who doubts it?"

His forehead furrowed, eyebrows disappearing under the hair that falls in his eyes. "I've never doubted it." His voice was little more than a whisper. The hand that was wrapped around his neck was suddenly holding my chin. His other hand was in a fist against his lips. Those wonderfully worrying eyes studied me, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep the flush I felt on my face out of sight. He then licked his thumb and rubbed it over my cheekbone. "Sorry. I couldn't tell if that was a bruise or not."

So I kissed him, right on the lips, so quickly that I wasn't even sure I had done it, but then his cheeks went pink and he stared at his knees.

"Sorry. I couldn't tell if that was a smile or not."  
I think sometimes the innate evilness of my family escapes me in strange and irrational ways that I can't really control. Oh well.

"Nymphadora, there is no doubt in my mind that you are a woman." He stood up and walked to kitchen door, smirking. "You are far too wicked to be anything else. Tea?"

"Yes, please." I give him my most polite smile. Wicked, am I? Oh, he doesn't know the half of it.

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